


Biker Like An Icon

by 221Btls



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bikers, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Leather, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 07:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7836472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls/pseuds/221Btls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Excerpt:</p><p>Alone, the Harley Softail Standard would have aroused John—how well he remembered the hot vibration between his thighs of the ’89 model he’d sold ages ago. But the long, sleek creature atop the Softail? Wearing leather as if it were a second skin? As gracefully as any dancer would, the biker threw a booted leg over the machine and planted it on the cobblestone road.<br/>Fuck. Me.<br/>John wiped bloody spittle from his lip; he’d bitten himself. Hard.<br/>Fuck.<br/>Me.<br/>The first Fuck. Me. had erupted as a curse. The second as an invitation John rescinded hastily; he was married. A very happy (and lusty) marriage, thank you very much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Biker Like An Icon

John stepped into winter’s early dusk, and a trio of young men swaggered toward him, their hooded smiles predatory.

     _Where’s the damn cab?_

   He should have left the clinic earlier. Tending to Mrs. Struthers at her home had been a favor he’d been happy to do, but this part of the city, dangerous enough in the daylight, could be downright deadly after dark.    

   A yawning rumble, growing louder by the millisecond, vibrated the air and shook the ground beneath John’s feet. The young men stopped short, spinning on their heels and scurrying back to whatever dark corner they had come from.

      Bikers, a good thirty- or forty-odd swarm of them, careened around the corner. Each heaving to a sudden stop in front of the seedy speakeasy across the street, revving their engines in displays of machismo before killing them. Burly men and slight. Some with tangled bushes of hair and others shorn bald, their heads stippled with faded ink. Leather and T-shirts and jeans and skulls. One by one they lumbered off of their Harleys—everyone looking different yet somehow the same.    

   All but one. 

   Alone, the Harley Softail Standard would have aroused John—how well he remembered the hot vibration between his thighs of the ’89 model he’d sold ages ago. But the long, sleek creature atop the Softail? Wearing leather as if it were a second skin? As gracefully as any dancer would, the biker threw a booted leg over the machine and planted it on the cobblestone road.

   Fuck. Me.

   John wiped bloody spittle from his lip; he’d bitten himself. Hard.

   Fuck.

   Me.

   The first Fuck. Me. had erupted as a curse. The second as an invitation John rescinded hastily; he was married. A very happy (and lusty) marriage, thank you very much.

   _Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock._ John chanted his husband’s name in a desperate plea to re-route the focus of his traitorous cock; he wasn’t going to be _that_ guy. But he couldn’t stop staring at that ass. Rounded and pert, John likely could set some kind of record for how high he could bounce a ten pence off of it.

   Wait…it looked oddly familiar.

   The rider lifted his helmet, springing loose a flop of dark curls.

   _Goddammit!_ John jerked his mobile from his pocket.

_**What the HELL are you doing?! Those people are DANGEROUS, you sodding twit!**_

   Sherlock turned toward John, his mouth lifting into a smirk.

**** **Happy to see me, John?**

****_Shite._ Sherlock had seen his hard-on.

**_NOT the point._ **

**I never knew your tastes ran to the plebian. I’ll have to file that away. Important data, you know.**

   John’s face and neck grew hot; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so angry.

 **“** Hey! Ain’t no pictures allowed.” The roughest looking of the bunch, his arms as thick as John’s thighs, headed John’s way. With four mates in tow. One of his patches read Crazy Eddie, and the name looked to fit.

   “Give it to me,” Crazy Eddie said, holding his hand out.

    John shoved his mobile into his pocket and squared into an unyielding stance. He wasn’t going to make the first move, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to take any shit.

   “I ain’t askin’.”

   “Is this what you were looking for?” Instead of his mobile, John whisked his gun out, aiming the Sig Sauer at the biker’s forehead.    

   Click, click. Click, click, click.

   Staring down the barrels of five pistols, John bit back a flinch. He lowered his gun carefully, keeping his free hand in sight—any sudden movement and nothing would be left of him but his blood flowing down the street.

   A humorless chuckle escaped him. _Not really the way I thought I’d go. Always thought Sherlock’d be by my side. Sherlock..._

   John glanced to where Sherlock, jaw clenched and eyes steeled, milled with the others watching the drama unfold. John didn’t know what the love of his life was up to this time, but he wasn’t leaving Sherlock behind; he refused to let Sherlock stupid himself to death. 

   _Maybe I can bluff my way. At least long enough to grab Sherlock and get out of here._

“I’ll be leaving now,” John said, sidling away slowly.

   “Uh uh. I’ll take this.” Crazy Eddie picked up the gun. “And your phone, too.”

   At Crazy Eddie’s nod, two of his men grabbed John’s arms, their vice-like grips cutting off John’s circulation. As a third thug reached for the mobile, John held his breath against the stench of ale and an unwashed body.

   “Crazy Eddie!”

   “I’m busy.”

   “Crazy Eddie!”

   “I heard ya the first time.”

   “Redbeard. Somethin’s wrong with him.” Winded from his short run across the street, a biker leaned over and grasped his knees, panting.

   “And what’m I supposed to do about it?”

   Redbeard? John scanned the spot where Sherlock had been standing, but he wasn’t there. Or anywhere else. John swallowed down bile that had risen to his throat. _If those fucking goons hurt him…_    

   “I’m a doctor.” John went into full captain mode. “I’ll see to him.”

   “I’m not done with you.”

   “If that man dies, it’ll be on your hands.”

   Crazy Eddie laughed, his soft belly wobbling. “You mistake me for someone who gives a flying fuck. He’s just a hang-around.”

   _Think, John._

“Maybe _you_ don’t give a flying fuck, but have you stopped to think about the rest of them? Eh? And if you don’t take care of your own, who do you think’s going to take care of you when something goes wrong?”

   “Scrappy little fella, ain’t ya.” Crazy Eddie squinted at John. “Okay, my boys’ll take ya, but you do anything dodgy…”

   The hands holding John fell away, and he sprinted to a circle of men, pushing his way to the center. Sherlock, eyes closed, lied motionless on the pavement.  Anger and fear welled up inside of John, battling for control. How many _fucking_ times did he have to watch this man die?!

   “Call an ambulance. Now! And move back.” John dropped to his knees. “What happened?”

   “He was staggering around, hanging onto his arm,” someone said.

   “No seizure?”

   “Duke’s an idiot. Redbeard acted just like my dad did when he had his heart attack. Talking, but all disconbub…discon…discom…Oh, hell. He couldn’t talk right. And ’e grabbed his arm and fell down.”

   A heart attack?! But Sherlock was too young. Too healthy.

   Christ, the drugs.  

   John felt for Sherlock’s pulse. Thready, but there. His skin wasn’t clammy; maybe it _had_ been a seizure. Sherlock’s chest deathly still, John leaned his ear down to Sherlock’s mouth, checking for a faint breath.

   “Go with it.”

   The barest of whispers, it took John a second to understand that Sherlock had said something. Wha—! The twat was faking it. John’s first instinct was to call out Sherlock on his infantile deception; in the next instant, John decided the best course was to play along. No doubt there was logical, albeit twisted, reason behind the plan, but just because he went along didn’t mean he had to be happy about it. And if he left now, there was a whole herd of tough guys who would love to see that neither of them left unharmed.  

   John knelt over Sherlock’s chest, pressing firmly enough that Sherlock knew how pissed he was, but not so hard he’d crack a rib or puncture a lung. Hmmm, on the other hand... _No, John. Don’t do it. One of us has to be the sane one._

   Breathing into Sherlock’s mouth, John was startled when the tip of Sherlock’s tongue teased his lips. Christ, what if one of the biker’s saw that. He pinched Sherlock’s nose tighter in reprimand, but the tongue darted out again. This time John had to squash a giggle. Leave it to Sherlock, trying to make him laugh even when the stakes were high. Careful to shield his response from prying eyes, John nipped Sherlock’s lip. _I love you, too. Dear fucking God how I love you._

   A siren pierced the air. _Thank Christ_. John didn’t know how long he could keep up the charade. Just because these guys were bikers, didn’t mean they were stupid.

   Two EMTs broke through the crowd, lifting Sherlock to a stretcher and trundling him to the ambulance. John jogged alongside, hoping like hell he’d slide on through without trouble.

   “You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

   _Fuck._

   John looked down at the hand on his arm, then up to Crazy Eddie’s face. The two men stared at each other, and John saw the glimmer of humanity in Eddie’s eyes.

   “You have my gun, my mobile. You don’t need me,” John said, quietly. “But Redbeard does.”

   After a pause, Crazy Eddie waved John away. “Go on, get outta here before I change my mind.”

   John gave a sharp nod and ran for the ambulance. Slamming the doors behind him, he collapsed onto a seat just as the siren wailed to life and the vehicle accelerated down the street.  

   Sherlock sat up and pulled off the oxygen mask.

   “Do you have any scrubs, Wiggins? I need to peel off this outfit if I still can. Better yet, hand me those scissors.”

   His mouth gaping, John looked at the EMT. Wiggins. In all of the commotion, he hadn’t noticed.

   “You _knew_ you were going to fake the heart attack, Sherlock? You set this up?”

   “Of course, I did. Did you think I didn’t have a plan?  John,” Sherlock chided. “I’m disappointed in you.” Sherlock took the scissors Wiggins handed him, and poised to use them, found them snatched away by a red-faced John Watson.

   “What about me? Did you know I was going to be there? Wait. _You_ set up the appointment with Mrs. Struthers. We both could have been _killed_ Sherlock!”

  “We were never in any real danger. The scissors?” Sherlock glared at John. “I can’t breathe.” 

   “You seem to be doing just fine.” John waved the scissors in Sherlock’s face. “Do you remember a little conversation we had not so long ago? What part of ‘I’ll never lie to you again, John’ didn’t you understand?”

   “I didn’t lie. I told you I was working a case.”

   “Leaving out a few details.”

   “Minor, really.”

   Unamused, John pressed his lips together.

  “Listen, John. I had to have an exit plan. I knew that today I’d gather the last of the information I needed, but it wasn’t as if they were going to just let me walk away. This way, they’ll think I’m, if not dead, useless to them. They won’t come looking for me. And if I’d told you, you wouldn’t have gone along. This was the simplest way, really.”

    John shook his head. Was there any use arguing? Sherlock always got his way, and neither of them had been hurt. Or had Sherlock? What a prick he was not to have thought about that.

   “You’re okay, aren’t you? You didn’t hit your head?” John threaded his fingers through the thick curls at the back of Sherlock’s head, feeling for a bump.

   “I’m fine. Never better than when you’re here.”

   “Don’t try to sweet talk me.”

   “What would you rather I do? Tell you that you—”

   “I’d rather you shut up.” John leaned in for a kiss, but Sherlock pulled back.

   “Wiggins, quit gawking.” Sherlock nodded toward the front passenger seat. When Wiggins had moved, Sherlock murmured against John’s lips, “Now, where were we?”

   “I was about to tell you what a delectable ass my husband has,” John murmured back, kissing Sherlock. “And that I’d like to show him how happy I am to see him, but only if he keeps his leathers on.”

   John took Sherlock’s hand and cupped it over his erection.

   “Dr. Watson, I’m shocked! But what a lucky man your husband must be.”

   “Not nearly as lucky as his husband is," John said, nuzzling into Sherlock's neck and sucking at the warm flesh over his throbbing pulse.

   “Driver, ah, ehm... 221b Baker Street. And be quick... _John_...” 

**Author's Note:**

> Biker Like An Icon is off of Paul McCartney's Off the Ground album, but my favorite version is from Paul is Live; it sounds a little dirtier. :-) Paul grow-w-wls it out!
> 
> It's just a humble little ditty of a story, but thank you for reading!


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